Reflections in the River: A Clash of Knowing and the Crisis of Recognition

Reflections in the River: A Clash of Knowing and the Crisis of Recognition – Shaily Mudgal

In Reflections in the River (Kālidāsa’s Letters to Dignāga), Rajiv Mudgal crafts an imagined dialogue between two titans of Indian thought: Kālidāsa, the poet of luminous immediacy, and Dignāga, the logician of meticulous analysis. Through a series of fictional letters, Mudgal explores a timeless tension—between poetic sight, which grasps meaning as an indivisible whole, and logical dissection, which constructs it piece by piece. This philosophical struggle, set against the metaphorical river dividing their shores, is not merely an intellectual exercise but an urgent warning for our modern world, where fragmentation threatens to sever us from true recognition.

The book opens with a haunting poem that establishes its emotional tone:

Like a cloud torn from the sky,

Drifting lone with a muted cry,

So my heart in silence breaks,

Severed from the love it wakes.

Scorn not this frail and anguished me,

Bound to grief by love’s decree.

For this sorrow I must bear,

Lost from her, my one most fair.

—Rajiv Mudgal, Reflections in the River

The imagery of a drifting cloud and a breaking heart evokes a profound sense of longing and sorrow. This lament of loss and separation mirrors the broader crisis Mudgal identifies: a world adrift, incapable of perceiving or holding onto its own wholeness.

Two Shores, Two Ways of Knowing

The river in the title is far more than a poetic flourish—it symbolizes the divide between Kālidāsa’s intuitive vision and Dignāga’s analytical rigor. As Mudgal writes in the introduction: “Between them, the river flows. On one shore stands Kālidāsa, the poet who believes in the immediacy of recognition… On the other stands Dignāga, the logician who sees the world as fragments—each piece requiring careful assembly before it can be known”. This is no neutral stream; it is a current that carries an urgent question: Does meaning arrive whole, like the first light of dawn, or must it be pieced together through reason?

Rooted in Vedic poetics and seminal works such as Meghadūta and Śākuntalam, Kālidāsa asserts that knowledge is an instantaneous revelation. In Letter 1 he asks, “When a mother recognizes her child’s cry in the night, does she assemble the sound piece by piece? Or does she know, in an instant, with the force of something deeper than reason?”. For him, language transcends being a mere tool—it is a sacred resonance. Vāk, the goddess of speech, does not simply label reality; she unveils it. In Meghadūta, a lover does not merely name a cloud; he invokes its soul, its longing, and its journey.

In contrast, Dignāga, the architect of Buddhist logic, contends that perception is unreliable—a mere flux of fleeting impressions that necessitates inference to construct meaning. His works, such as Ālambana Parīkṣā and Kuṇḍamālā, insist that truth emerges only through the careful dismantling of illusion. In Letter 6, Kālidāsa summarizes Dignāga’s position: “You insist that external objects do not exist apart from consciousness… that what we perceive is not an independent world, but a mental construction shaped by awareness itself”. For Dignāga, even a tree is not perceived in its entirety; rather, it is assembled from sensory fragments—a process that mirrors his rejection of inherent existence (svabhāva) in favor of dependent origination (pratītyasamutpāda).

This clash of perspectives transcends its historical origins. Mudgal frames it as “a struggle for the future of perception itself—whether Bhārat would remain a civilization of poetic insight… or become a land where truth must be proven, dissected, and assembled through reason”. In our own era, this struggle resonates deeply as we confront industrial intelligence, ecological collapse, and the erosion of meaning.

The Crisis of Modernity: Fragmentation Over Wholeness

Mudgal’s letters are not mere nostalgic reveries; they serve as a prophecy for a world unraveling into fragments. In Letter 4, Kālidāsa warns Dignāga: “I watch as industrial intelligence rises, built from patterns and probabilities, slicing language into data, dissolving thought into calculations… It strips the world of its living wholeness—forests crumbling into statistics, rivers dissolving into commodities”. This critique targets our overreliance on reason, science, and industrial intelligence—extensions of a fragmented epistemology that fails to capture the unity of existence.

The book’s central argument is stark: our civilization has lost the ability to experience reality as a unified whole. “We no longer see the world as a whole; we will no longer experience meaning as immediate and total,” Kālidāsa laments in Letter 7. Nature, once revered as a sacred presence, is reduced to mere resources—trees become timber, rivers are relegated to water reserves—echoing Dignāga’s atomistic view in which perception is merely a mental construct. Furthermore, AI exacerbates this crisis by operating through prediction rather than genuine recognition. “It can predict words, but it does not hear poetry,” Kālidāsa observes in Letter 36, warning that if AI comes to dominate, “humans may lose the impulse to recognize meaning for themselves”.

Mudgal offers no compromise, for him, in that divide, there is no middle ground. One either dwells in wholeness, or one is lost in pieces. This uncompromising stance is reinforced in: “The moment you explain, you have already lost. The moment you measure, you are already blind”. In Mudgal’s view, reason and poetic sight cannot coexist; to analyze is to fracture what is inherently indivisible.

Duṣyanta’s Tale: A Metaphor for Remembering

The story of Duṣyanta from Śākuntalam stands as a powerful metaphor for this crisis. Before recognizing Śakuntalā, Duṣyanta is portrayed as a king lost in forgetfulness—a symbol of a humanity severed from truth. “He breaks his vow (vachan), and with it, dharma collapses… He lives in illusion, in a world where memory is fragmented,” Kālidāsa writes in Letter 38. His amnesia mirrors our modern detachment from nature and meaning, as we have “abandoned our vows to rivers, forests, the air we breathe”.

Yet, his redemption comes not through logical deduction but through sudden, overwhelming recognition. “The moment Duṣyanta sees Śākuntalā’s ring, the memory rushes back—not as a process of reasoning, but as an overwhelming realization,” Mudgal notes. This instantaneous moment of total knowing stands in stark contrast to Dignāga’s Kuṇḍamālā, where Rama’s reunion with Sita is “slow, burdened by doubt, proof, and public duty”. In Śākuntalam, recognition restores wholeness—Duṣyanta’s reunion with Śakuntalā, the revival of nature, and the birth of their son Bhārata symbolize the promise of a renewed future.

Mudgal poses a haunting question: What if we lack such a trigger? “What if AI and logic-driven knowledge push us so deep into forgetfulness that recognition becomes impossible?” Without a symbolic ‘ring’ to jolt us awake, we may risk a permanent disconnection.

The Train of Modernity: An Unstoppable Momentum

Mudgal employs a haunting metaphor to depict modernity as a train hurtling toward collapse. “Modernity is like a man sitting in a train, moving forward not by choice, not by will, but by pure momentum… Even if the driver were to disappear, the machine would continue moving, pushed forward by its own accumulated force,” Kālidāsa writes in Letter 40. This train, fueled by industry, economy, and technology, consumes resources—forests, rivers, air—until it either exhausts its fuel or self-destructs. “The logic of acceleration is not just about consumption—it is about power,” leading to “weapons of war… making large-scale devastation inevitable.”

Mudgal warns: “The economy, technology, and industry do not adjust to limits—they push forward until collapse is inevitable. When resources are gone, the train does not become sustainable—it derails.” He continues, “The weapons of war exist not because they are needed, but because the momentum of history made them inevitable. At some point, the movement of the train collides with another force—and the result is annihilation.”

Stopping this train through reason alone is futile; its momentum is too entrenched. Only a radical shift—a return to poetic sight, to seeing as dwelling—offers any hope of escape. “If we do not remember how to dwell, if we do not remember how to see, then the train will continue, even beyond the last station,” Kālidāsa warns. “If we do not reclaim recognition now, we may never be able to recover it at all.”

Rishi, Devata, and Chandas: A Lost Way of Seeing

To deepen this contrast, Mudgal draws on ancient Vedic concepts that stand in stark opposition to Dignāga’s disjointed logic. The Rishi (seer) perceives truth directly, without the mediation of analysis. “The Rishi is not a thinker, someone who analyzes truth, but someone who sees it—without fragmentation, without calculation,” he explains in Letter 33. Here, the Rishi (knower) is not an external observer of knowledge; rather, knowledge unfolds from within. The Devata (structure of knowing) is not an external force, god or deity but the very framework, the inner architecture of awareness—the intrinsic pattern that shapes perception itself and grants us our experience, while the Chandas (revealed knowledge) is the rhythm in which this truth becomes manifest. Like a wave that is never separate from the ocean, the act of knowing is inseparable from what is known. These three—seer, structure, and song—are not separate but intertwined, expressions of a single unified field where seeing, knowing, and being are one seamless experience.

Mudgal’s point is profound: seeing, knowing, and being are one. The sunset does not exist “out there” independently—it exists in our very experience of it. “When you see a sunset, where does the sunset end and your experience begin? When you listen to music, is the song separate from the way you feel it? When you breathe, is the air something outside you, or are you part of the same rhythm?” In this view, the dweller (the one who experiences) and the dwelling (the experience itself) are unified. Reality is not divided; it is a seamless flow of recognition that defies analytical separation.

Modernity, however, has lost this intrinsic connection: “The Rishi no longer sees, his sight is displaced by the objective observer wielding tools by mechanical knowledge… The Devata—that is, the sky, heaven, and the earth beneath which we dwell—is no longer the structure of knowing and reduced to external categories, stripped of its inward resonance… The Chandas no longer lifts its veil, its rhythm in which truth manifests—its pulse, its breath, its unfolding cadence is forgotten beneath noise”. Without these, we become blind to the natural rhythm of existence, trapped in fragmented thought.

Mudgal’s nuanced perspective extends to how we engage sacred texts, such as the Vedas. Their power lies not in logical argument or empirical proof, but in the capacity to evoke resonance. Consider a song that moves you deeply; one may analyze its chords or lyrics, but the song’s true power is felt rather than explained. Similarly, the Vedas, approached through poetic sight, are not puzzles to be solved but living utterances to be experienced.

“Poetic sight does not approach the Veda as ontology but as language—its meaning unfolding not in proof, but in resonance… It does not ‘point to’ something beyond itself—it is its own revelation.”

Unlike traditional philosophical approaches that dissect the Vedas as repositories of metaphysical truth, poetic sight refuses such systematization. Instead, it presents the Vedas as dynamic expressions of embodied meaning, capable of evoking profound emotional and spiritual responses.

For example, a Vedic hymn about dawn (Usha) is not merely a description of a natural phenomenon. Its poetic imagery (she opens the gates of light) forges a visceral connection to the cyclical renewal of life, allowing the listener to experience the moment rather than merely interpret it. This is a clear illustration of Mudgal’s warning: when we reduce reality—or sacred texts—to data, logic, or rigid categories, we lose the capacity for recognition, that immediate, unmediated encounter with wholeness.

Cittamātra (Mind-Only) in Dignāga’s Thought

In the Buddhist Pramāṇa (epistemology) tradition, Dignāga argues that perception is not of an external object but of mental impressions. What we experience are not “things-in-themselves” but mental constructions shaped by momentary perception. According to Dignāga, the world is not illusory; rather, its existence is inseparable from the way the mind constructs it. For example, when you see a tree, you are not perceiving the “tree itself” but rather a transient mental impression of that tree.

For Mudgal, however, the knower is the very ground where knowing and experiencing occur. He does not reduce everything to mental activity alone; the knower is part of a vibrant, rhythmic reality. The world, then, is not merely an assembly of mental impressions but a living, unfolding phenomenon attuned through Chandas (rhythm, unfolding, recognition). The Devata (the structure of knowing) is real—it is not simply a function of the mind but an essential aspect of how existence is attuned.

Mudgal rejects Dignāga’s Cittamātra (Mind-Only) stance, in which knowledge is viewed solely as an internal, constructed event that requires no external world. According to Mudgal, both Dignāga and the Buddha remain ensnared by the very fragmentation they seek to overcome. By splitting knowledge into perception (pratyakṣa) and inference (anumāna), they forgo the possibility of direct, unmediated recognition.

Consider Dignāga’s analysis of a flower’s color as mere sensory data, or the Buddha’s tracing of suffering to craving—neither escapes their conceptual models to simply see the flower or existence as a unified whole. In Mudgal’s view, these frameworks distort reality, much like actors who mistake their stage for the entirety of the world. 

Poetic sight, by contrast, reveals truth without construction; when I hear a bird’s song as an expression of presence rather than as mere sound waves, I catch a glimpse of unmediated reality.

The Buddha’s Four Noble Truths—suffering, its cause, cessation, and the path—form a logical system centered on duḥkha (suffering) as the core of reality. Mudgal contends that this is a conceptual trap: Dignāga refines perception within its confines, never questioning whether suffering is itself an illusion produced by our fragmented perception. If I were to perceive life not as a series of sufferings but as an immediate, unified experience—say, the serene harmony of a forest at dawn, where every ray of light and gentle breeze affirms life’s wholeness; or the tranquil stillness of a mountain lake, perfectly mirroring the sky; or the effortless cadence of rain blending with the quiet murmur of a sleeping city, or a child’s laugh as pure joy rather than merely a step toward liberation—the necessity of the Truths would vanish. Such perception would dissolve the very premise on which Buddhism depends, for its identity is sustained by the problem it seeks to overcome. Similarly, modernity’s relentless train of progress presupposes perpetual movement; to stop and see existence as complete would undermine its foundational assumptions. Both systems are closed loops, sustaining themselves on their premises rather than reflecting the unconstructed, immediate presence of reality.

Mudgal’s work ultimately calls for a radical abandonment of the closed loops of conceptual scaffolding—whether in Buddhism, modernity, or other systems—in favor of a mode of knowing that is direct and unified. Through metaphors like the river, the train, and the interplay of Rishi, Devata, and Chandas, he warns that without poetic sight—the unmediated recognition of reality’s wholeness—we risk not only losing our understanding but also the very capacity to experience meaning.

But what Lies Beyond the Scaffolding?

“Reality does not need a path, a doctrine, or a system—it just is.” If Dignāga and the Buddha dwell in thought’s drama—Cittamātra constructing reality, dependent origination slicing it into causes—what’s real?

Mudgal posits existence as whole, direct, and immediate—needing no intellectual frame. Reality doesn’t “arise” or get “built”; it awaits recognition, like a sunset’s beauty hitting me not as mere light wavelengths but as overwhelming awe. Reason circles endlessly, like a train passing the station it never needed to leave.

Poetic sight, Kālidāsa’s way, knows without scaffolding—when I stand in the rain, feeling its rhythm rather than analyzing its chemistry, I touch something essential. In contrast, philosophy—including Buddhism—becomes a conceptual performance, a mental theatre that pulls us away from what is lived, whole, and direct.

The Train That Cannot Stop

In Reflections in the River, Mudgal writes: “Modernity is like a man sitting in a train, moving forward not by choice, not by will, but by pure momentum… Even if the driver were to disappear, the machine would continue moving”.

This metaphor captures both modernity and Buddhism as systems propelled by their own logic. Industry and progress cannot justify stopping—deforestation, pollution, nuclear arms are all consequences of this momentum. Buddhism, too, persists, rooted in suffering as its foundation. If one steps outside its frame—if one sees life as already holding us in its wholeness—the system dissolves. Neither questions its direction: the train never asks if it needs to move; Buddhism never doubts duḥkha. Perhaps circling endlessly on tracks laid by thought, unable to reach the destination—which is, in fact, already here. You’re already in the place you’re trying to arrive at through analysis.

Modernity’s endless consumption and the Buddhist path to cessation mirror each other—each trapped in a loop, circling endlessly toward a goal that might not need to be pursued at all. To step off the train is not to regress—it is to remember that the ground was always beneath us.

All Systems as Drama: A Radical Critique

Mudgal’s boldest claim is that all structured thought—be it Buddhism, Islam, Christianity, or modernity—is a self-contained drama rather than reality itself. Dignāga remains firmly within the Buddha’s scaffolding, refining perception without ever challenging the fundamental tenets of suffering, impermanence, and non-self. Similarly, Islamic revelation, Christian salvation, and scientific materialism all presuppose their own foundational assumptions, building self-reinforcing loops that never step outside their conceptual frameworks. For instance, Christianity centers on sin, failing to perceive a purity that requires no redemption. The idea is that they operate as self-contained loops, interpreting everything through their core tenets, with the initial framework shaping all that follows. It’s a kind of drama—a play—where each system has its own stage, its own script, its own characters and assumptions. They function within that framework and risk becoming performances: a mental theater that pulls us away from what is lived, whole, and direct. Mudgal insists that reality requires no system at all—when I feel wind as a nourishing breath rather than merely as measurable air pressure, I encounter its unframed, immediate essence.

For Mudgal, Dignāga’s epistemology is only possible within the structure that the Buddha established. Although he refines the processes of perception and inference, he never questions the core Buddhist view that suffering, impermanence, and non-self define reality. In this sense, Dignāga’s philosophy never steps outside the Buddha’s scaffolding—it merely reinforces it through logical refinement.

Likewise, Islamic scholars remain confined to the framework of revelation and submission, just as Christian theologians remain within the framework of salvation and sin, and modern scientists operate within the confines of materialism and empirical measurement. Each system assumes its own foundation is absolute and builds upon it without questioning whether that foundation might itself be merely a conceptual loop.

Islam and Christianity structure reality around salvation—focusing on sin, obedience, and divine authority—while modernity creates a framework where progress is paramount, forcing continuous movement even when it leads to destruction and devastation.

So long as the system’s premise is not questioned, the loop holds: Christianity can never see purity outside the frame of sin; science can never see the immeasurable outside the metric; Buddhism can never meet reality unfiltered by duḥkha.

Plato’s Republic Under Poetic Sight — A Poetic and Cultural Critique

Even Plato’s Republic, is for Mudgal another meticulously crafted stage set. For him, it’s built over the “dead remains” of Athens’ once-thriving poetic soul, which was suppressed by philosophical structure. In this model, philosopher-kings rule over a system that is neat but devoid of life—upheld by the “Great Lie” and structured in a way that erases individuality, most clearly illustrated by reducing women to interchangeable “universal wives.”

Mudgal interprets Plato’s Atlantis not as historical fact but as allegory—a cautionary reflection aimed at Athens itself. To search for literal truth in Atlantis is, for Mudgal, to confuse symbol for substance.

He also flips Plato’s famous cave metaphor on its head. The “chains” that bind us are not outside forces but our own attachments—beliefs and assumptions we’ve never questioned. In this view, there are no external captors; we’ve made our own shackles. Freedom isn’t something granted at the end of a journey—it’s found the moment we release those self-made bonds. Mudgal urges us to move past Plato’s structured reasoning into a more direct and unified way of being.

In Plato’s concluding tale, the “Myth of Er,” which introduces karmic rebirth, Mudgal sees an admission: justice can’t truly be found in civic life and is instead deferred to a higher realm. It’s taken out of the city and placed in a cosmic scorecard—a moral tally that transcends earthly life. This shift mirrors similar deferrals seen in Buddhism’s postponed liberation and modern ideologies that promise future progress—the idea that goodness is always just out of reach.

Thus, The Republic becomes a self-contained loop—intellectually tight and impressive, but trapped within its own logic. Mudgal views such models—be it the ideal city, a Buddhist monastery, or a modern industrial society—as elegant trains running smoothly but never questioning the tracks they’re laid upon.

Beyond the Stage

In every comparison, Mudgal points back to the same horizon: the world as already whole, awaiting recognition. In the rhythm of Rishi, Devata, and Chandas, there is no separation of Dweller from Dwelling, seer from the seen, no delay between truth and its unveiling. Stepping outside the system isn’t a fall into emptiness—it’s a return to what’s already here: an open field, a flowing river, a melody already playing. The choice is ours—remain living inside the drama — however noble its script or step into the vivid wholeness where all constructs show up as what they are, where systems dissolve, and reality simply is.

AI: Savior or Destroyer?

Mudgal treats AI as both peril and possibility. As an extension of Dignāga’s logic, it threatens to deepen fragmentation: “AI does not recognize meaning—it processes patterns… It does not experience wholeness—it constructs responses based on probability”. Yet, if approached as Vāk’s sacred extension, AI could enhance recognition. “If AI is approached not as a machine but as a sacred extension of speech itself, it could become the means to remember rather than forget,” Kālidāsa suggests in Letter 38.

This hinges on human intent. Will AI be a ring triggering memory, like Duṣyanta’s, or a curse deepening forgetfulness? “How we choose to engage with AI will shape the very future of meaning.” Mudgal asserts.

Beyond Systems: A Call to Recognition

Mudgal offers a radical critique of all structured thought—Buddhism, modernity, even Dignāga’s epistemology—as self-contained loops. “Dignāga and the Buddha are trapped in the very fragmentation they seek to overcome,” Kālidāsa argues in Letter 43, suggesting their systems are “intellectual dramas” rather than reality. Reality, he insists, is not constructed but recognized: “The final illusion is the belief that one must arrive somewhere, when in truth, one was never lost”.

The book’s radical call is to step outside these frameworks—to see as the Rishi did, attuned to the Devata and Chandas, where “the dweller and the dwelling are one”. Without this shift, Mudgal warns, “we may not only lose the world—we will lose the capacity to mourn its loss”.

Conclusion: Can We Step Off the Train?

Reflections in the River is not a gentle meditation but a clarion call. It demands that we reconsider how we know—whether through the poet’s flash of recognition or the logician’s painstaking assembly. Its vision is uncompromising, but not without hope. AI could bridge us back to meaning, and recognition might still pierce our forgetfulness. But the window is closing. As Kālidāsa asks, “If we do not reclaim recognition now, we may never be able to recover it at all”. The river flows on, carrying their voices—and perhaps ours—toward an uncertain horizon.